


Wedding of the Year

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Ysraneth's Tale [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: Cannibalism, Crack Pairings, Drunken Shenanigans, Multi, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia and Ysraneth finally get married. Sanguine shows up. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ysraneth was many things – Thane of Three Holds, Alduin’s Bane, Dragonborn, Eater-of-Thalmor – but in all the time he’d known her, Balgruuf had never seen her nervous. Worried, yes, and even stunned; but never, ever showing something like fear. The half-Bosmer Nord was staring up at High Hrothgar from the Great Porch, a red draconic head by her side as Odahviing sprawled on what had been his favourite place to brood but was now a glorified dragon-perch, and twitching. “What if she realises she can do a lot better than me and runs screaming from the Great Hall?” she was asking the amused dovah nervously.

            “Opinions about your dietary choices aside, I know that you are perfect for Lydia and she for you,” Balgruuf observed warmly as he joined them.  “I will be proud to call you kinswoman, Ysraneth.”

            He recalled the first time he’d met the huntress: clad in rough fur armour, a recurved hunting bow on her back with precious steel arrows, she’d stumbled into his hall a year ago to warn of Alduin’s attack on Helgen. The long, dun-brown scalp-lock, inverted teardrop face, slanted forest-green eyes and beige-olive skin were still the same, perhaps just a trifle more lined, but now she wore handcrafted armour of the finest dragonscale and a mighty dragonbone bow. The quiver of tanned Altmer skin was the only original piece of equipment she maintained.

            Balgruuf never regretted embracing the huntress as Thane and assigning Lydia to her, even after her… ah… unorthodox dietary preferences became public knowledge. Ysraneth made a lot of noise about the Green Pact and Meat Mandate but only went out of her way to eat Altmer – and of those, she only focused on the Thalmor. Bless her heart, she apologised to Irileth constantly for finding Dunmer too ‘ashy’ for her tastes like it was a big insult; his huscarl simply shook her head in amusement. Gregarious, kind and generous to a fault, Ysraneth had fallen head over heels with Lydia on meeting her, and his niece with her. Given some of the stories about his Dragonborn ancestor Olaf One-Eye, Balgruuf was rather relieved that this one had few territorial ambitions despite her half-joking claim she was going to take over Falkreath.

            Oh, she had her faults, and cannibalism was the least of them. Ysraneth had let her hatred for the Thalmor override her judgment a few times, she truly couldn’t comprehend the point of displaying trophies unless they were useful, and she was as opinionated as Olfrid and Vignar, his two old Thanes. Balgruuf chuckled as he recalled her physically standing up during one Holdthing and literally banging their heads together; it had cost him (well, her) a pair of fine dragonbone daggers for the weregild.

            “Thanks,” Ysraneth said sincerely. “It’s just that… shit. I’m a glorified huntress with a taste for fine dining. And now I’m getting married into a Jarl’s family.”

            Balgruuf smirked at her. “You’re the only one I know who could call eating Thalmor ‘a taste for fine dining’.”

            “Hey, they think of themselves as superior. You’d think they’d be flattered,” she observed dryly.

            Odahviing, hitherto silent, nodded agreeably. “They are quite delicious,” the dragon said. “I got to eat a few more recently.”

            “Today’s main course came from Northwatch Keep,” Ysraneth explained, expression briefly grim. “The bastards were holding Thorald Grey-Mane.”

            “Good. Good…” The Thalmor had unleashed terror upon Tamriel during the Great War. Though cannibalism was abhorrent to most civilised beings, it was pleasing to know that Ysraneth’s dietary choices were scaring the shit out of the Altmer and that the Empire could spread its hands and claim ‘freedom of religion’ from the old agreement between Tiber Septim and Valenwood…

            “Okay, we got a few Bosmer dinner guests and one Breton who apparently likes the taste of Altmer,” Ysraneth added, rubbing her long nose. “It was either leave her to chew on Markarth’s dead or invite her for dinner here.”

            “…Servant of Namira?” Balgruuf’s education at the Bards’ College had taught him about most of the major Daedric cults.

            “I _think_ so. Creepy, that shit. She wanted me to bring around a Priest of Arkay but I brought around the head of the Justicars instead in return for her help in handling some Forsworn.” Ysraneth shuddered. “I don’t mess with the Aedra but I certainly didn’t want to piss off the Daedric Prince of cannibalism.”

            Balgruuf, familiar with moral compromises on a daily basis as Jarl, nodded slowly. “Does Lydia know this?”

            “Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t want to push.” Ysraneth looked up at High Hrothgar again. “Sometimes I think about saying ‘Fuck it all’ and returning to High Hrothgar. Arngeir was a bit frosty the last time I was there because I was working with Delphine and Esbern, but I was able to shut those two down right smart. They want to kill all the dragons and I’m like, ‘Hey, if they’re minding their own business like Odahviing or helping humanity like Paarthunax, they’re fine’.”

            Odahviing slitted his eyes as the Dragonborn scratched his horns idly. “There are enough joorre who dare to threaten the lands Iiz-Raan-Aaz guards as her own to feed a hundred dovahhe, not to mention all the Kriisfahlil,” he observed.

            “I’m honestly hoping the Thalmor will get the fucking picture to stay on their islands and leave everyone alone,” Ysraneth agreed softly. “If I can get the dragons to pin them down, Valenwood and Elseweyr might be able to free themselves without me needing to leave Skyrim.”

            “Or at least buy us time,” Balgruuf murmured. It always surprised him how much she understood of the bigger picture. If only Olfrid and Vignar had half her insight.

            “My Da was a noble in the days before the Thalmor took over,” Ysraneth confessed softly. “Not that noble really meant much in Valenwood. It just meant you were a better hunter than others. Our only real dynasty was the Camorans… and thanks to that Daedra-loving prick, they died out.”

            “You’d be a better Jarl than you think,” Balgruuf found himself saying. “If you take over Falkreath and Idgrod joins us, we could keep the balance in Skyrim as neutrals.”

            “Nenya’s already dropping hints because Siddgeir’s beggaring the Hold,” Ysraneth observed flatly. “Damn fool. And Dengeir’s off his nut with dementia now and Thadgeir’s too much of a pushover…”

            She punched him in the shoulder. “Bastard. You’ve talked me into it.”

            “My niece deserves a Jarl. And your house is nicer than Siddgeir’s.” Balgruuf didn’t bother trying to hide his triumphant grin.

            “You just want to make yourself related to one more bloody Jarl.” Ysraneth paused and then added, “Unless you’re trying to humour Irileth with her Cannib-Jarl pun.”

            “I’d forgotten that,” Balgruuf laughed. “Should I tell her?”

            “Wait until I pull it off. And given I intend to make Falkreath Hold a sanctuary for Bosmer escaping Valenwood…” Ysraneth rolled her broad shoulders under her armour. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

            Balgruuf grinned. “I am _not_ going to tell my niece you just said that.”

            “You’re all heart, Balgruuf. Thanks.”

…

Maramal knew better than to comment on the meat roasting on a spit, the amount of Bosmer wearing golden leather and unnerving grins, or the dragon perched on the roof of Jorrvaskr. Ysraneth, as a huntress, wanted to get married under the newly regrown Gildergreen. The priest wasn’t going to argue with the Dragonborn who had an unnerving habit of eating people.

            Guests from all over Skyrim were gathered in the centre of the Wind District. Ulfric, Tullius, Elisif, Kodlak… Lucia, the couple’s first adopted daughter, stood proudly holding the Bonds of Matrimony rings. Whatever Ysraneth’s dietary faults, she clearly had a big heart.

            As the niece of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, Lydia descended from the stairs to Dragonsreach, accompanied by her family. She wore the dragonbone plate Ysraneth had forged for her under the watchful eye of Eorlund and her sculpted face was serene, alight with the love that could only come from Mara’s grace.

            Ysraneth stood under the Gildergreen, wearing her dragonscale leathers, looking a little nervous. At least one spouse was always convinced the other would run away once they realised they could do better; but Maramal expected that of Lydia, not the Dragonborn.

            But that they truly loved? Aye, Maramal could feel it.

            The ceremony was brief but significant. Maramal had to cough pointedly to make sure the post-vows embrace remained suitable for public decency and Odahviing’s triumphant Shout nearly knocked off the steeple of the Temple of Kynareth. He’d barely pronounced the blessing when everyone started running for the food and drink.

            Maramal sighed and shook his head. Nords had no appreciation of the sacred.

…

“Mmm, I see what all the fuss is about,” Anoriath announced, chowing down on a bit of Thalmor. “Finally, a use for Altmer.”

            “Thalmor,” Ysraneth corrected. “I got no quarrel with the Altmer who mind their own damned business.”

            “Okay, okay…” Anoriath sighed, then blinked. “Hey, is Galmar helping himself to a slice?”

“Hey, offer’s open for anyone to try it,” the Dragonborn told her fellow hunter.

“Yeah, well, Eola’s giving me creepy vibes…”

“Eola! Quit staring at the guests. They’re not dinner!” Ysraneth yelled to the priestess of Namira in Breton.

Eola grumbled but nodded. Ever since Ysraneth had helped her get the Ring of Namira, they’d been odd friends. Lydia didn’t much like her, so Ysraneth kept it casual.

(In another life, they could have been something. Maybe that was what made Lydia dislike the woman).

“Hey, Yssie, can I liven this party up?” asked a roughened, all-too-familiar voice. The Dragonborn turned to face the Breton guise of Sam… a.k.a. Sanguine.

“Nothing illegal, non-consensual or involving kids and animals, okay?” she countered.

“I was thinking more of sticking a Stormcloak in bed with an Imperial and seeing what happens.”

“Arrange for me to see it with fried Thalmor bits and it’s a go.” For a Daedric Prince, Sanguine was pretty cool so long as you kept him within reasonable limits.

“Done!” Sanguine faded into the crowd and Ysraneth grabbed Lydia’s hand.

“Shit’s about to get frisky. Want to get out now?”

Her wife grinned, having joined her on the night of shenanigans with Sanguine, and nodded. “Let’s go,” she agreed.

Running away, holding each other’s hands and laughing like errant children, Ysraneth knew that it might just be okay in the end. She’d won the war. She got the girl. Wasn’t a perfect happy ending, because those only happened in books, but it was good enough for her.


	2. Chapter 2

Galmar didn’t know what was in that drink Ysraneth’s friend Sam shared, but it warmed the belly like a slow fire and made the world brighter. He found himself laughing more, even with Imperials, and teaching everyone the words to a drinking song that described the many ways to kill a Thalmor. Much to his surprise (or perhaps not, Ysraneth had made it clear that none here were friends to the Thalmor, especially since they were the main course), that song was a hit with General Tullius, who added his own verses or three that had ideas that were gruesome even by Galmar’s standards. There was something about hearing new and unique ways for Thalmor to die, delivered in a slurred West Wealde accent with a touch of High Rock brogue, that made Galmar like the General very, very much.

            The Stone-Fist looked around for Ulfric and found him speaking animatedly to Rikke, their old friend who’d never abandoned the Legion. Given that the Dragonborn had made it abundantly clear that to violate the truce of her wedding day would be to become the main course for the thank-you feast for her pureblood Bosmeri guards, Galmar figured that his lord was safe enough and decided to pay more attention to the General.

            Tullius was swaying a bit, being a lightweight when it came to good old Nord mead, and continuing to slur drunken verses about killing Thalmor. Galmar never expected he’d have something in common with an Imperial who denied Talos, but the Colovian was just a soldier like so many other Legion veterans; Ysraneth had once pointed out that the people of the Empire weren’t to blame for the White-Gold Concordat, just the Emperor and maybe the Elder Council.

            (She’d also said some uncomplimentary things about Talos, but no one was going to take it up with the woman who’d killed and eaten Alduin, after all).

            “Give us a few weeks and we’ll make a Stormcloak of you yet!” Galmar said heartily, slapping the Colovian on the shoulder and sending him staggering.

            “Hic. Put me in one of your dresses and you can wear one of mine,” Tullius responded cheerfully. “Then we can play tonsil hockey.”

            Galmar didn’t know what tonsil hockey was but putting Tullius in a Stormcloak uniform was mightily amusing. They managed to acquire uniforms from Ralof and Elisif, who were stark naked and singing the ‘What Do You Do with a Freshly Killed Thalmor’ song. Cannibalism was socially unacceptable – except in Valenwood – but their hostess had been raised in the Green Pact. And Galmar had to admit she really knew what she was talking about when cooking Thalmor.

            They passed Sam, the little Breton with the wonderful drink, and raised mugs to him. The man was literally pissing himself laughing at the merriment his drink was causing while some random old Imperial in motley garb was silent in awe. “I never knew you had such madness in you!” the motley-clad Imperial told the Breton.

            “Please, you helped make the drink,” Sam told his friend. “Now, remember Yssie’s requests.”

            “Oh, I know. It’s her party and she killed Alduin and all.” The Imperial sighed. “Oh well, maybe I’ll go bother Cicero. He’s good for a laugh and it annoys Sithis.”

            “Have fun, Sheo,” Sam urged.

            Galmar and Tullius wound up on a couch playing tonsil hockey. It was fun. Galmar was having a wonderful time and he owed it all to Ysraneth’s friend Sam.

…

Sam Guevenne was rubbing his hands in glee when Yssie, bless her little cannibal heart, arrived several hours later with the smile of one who had utterly debauched herself with a willing and adept partner. “Your idea was so good I had to expand on it,” the Daedric Prince told the half-Bosmer with a grin.

            “You’re not kidding,” Yssie said, looking awed. “Galmar and Tullius – shit, I need _that_ image out of my head. Ralof and Elisif – oooh, that could work. He’s young and virile, she’s pretty and lonely, and they’re both just dumb enough to like each other. Well, I’ll be – Wut. Vittoria Vicci’s decided she wants some of Kai’s wet pommel. Asgeir’s totally going to be heartbroken.”

            Sam grinned evilly. “Sorry, not all of them are… ah…”

            “Yeah, yeah, conducive to keeping a good meal in my belly, I know. So! Idgrod – you go, old girl! – and that old fart from the Companions while Aslfur builds closer relationships with Riften… err, Laila Law-Giver. I hope casual drunken adultery isn’t a big deal up here.”

            “It’ll be fine,” Sam assured her. “Look over there.”

            “What. The. Fuck. Is Ulfric really trying to snog half the Imperial Command and Rikke the Stormcloaks?”

            “It was a bet, I believe.”

            “Fasendil looks like he was wishing he was dinner. Oh, hey, Olfina and Jon. No surprise _there_.”

            “Maramal made himself useful and married them before he left.”

            “Amazing. He’s not a totally useless twat then.”

            “Hey, you should come to some of the Aedra/Daedra mixers. Mara, bless her little cotton socks, is one of the kinkiest ladies out there. Even Dibella was impressed.”

            “I’m a one-Nord woman, Sam, but thanks for the invite.” Yssie leaned against the balcony, watching Dragonsreach’s hall turn into a glorious mess of drunken debauchery. “Hey, they ate all the tenderloin!”

            “Get people drunk enough and they’ll crave anything,” Sam told her with a smile. “By the way, Namira popped through and tried some. She thinks it’s a bit too fresh but otherwise tasty.”

            “You kept Balgruuf out of it, right? The guy’s got a great thing going on with Irileth and I’d hate to bugger it up.”

            “They’re doing a little personal debauchery in his bedroom. I never would have guessed the Jarl of Whiterun was into-“

            “Sam, I love your work. I really do. But Balgruuf’s my uncle-in-law. I really don’t need details on his love life.”

            “Suit yourself. But seriously, ask Irileth about knots. She’s really good at them.”

            “I’ll do that. She’s pretty awesome.” The Dragonborn sighed happily, looking over the scene below. “Do you think this will stop the Civil War? I got people I like on both sides of the mess and… yeah. The Thalmor are the ones who win if it continues.”

            “Debauchery, my dear, is a great equaliser,” Sam observed quietly, his tone serious. “See Nilsine there? She’s into Hadvar. Same with Ralof and Elisif. They’ll wake up sober tomorrow – no hangovers, I’m not that mean – and realise they’ve done wonderfully debauched things with people who are meant to be their mortal enemies. Some will never speak of it again. Others will spend most of their lives regretting it. A few might remain enemies. But a fair few of these people will realise they’re quite compatible, there are far better groups than each other to hate, and Mara will be gaga over all the weddings which ensue.”

            “I never pegged you for a peacemaker, Sam.”

            “While war can make for lots of quick and dirty fun, I much prefer peacetime. It allows for greater prosperity, which gives people more free time, which leads to sustainable growth in debauchery.”

            “You sound like a businessman.”

            “I am. I deal in debauchery and what close-minded people call sin.” Sam sipped from his brew, nodding appreciatively. “Molag Bal takes all the fun out of it and Mephala is all about deception. I like to bring the truth out in people. Sometimes that means they don’t like what they see about themselves.”

            “Huh –EOLA, FASENDIL IS A _GUEST_ , NOT _DINNER_!Oh. Oh. I get how she’s… ah… Damn, that girl is creepy as shit.”

            “Namira is into some really kinky shit,” Sam agreed. “Though it’s funny that a cannibal has her limits.”

            “Hey, I believe in consenting parties. It’s more fun that way.”

            “Good point.” Sam looked at her sideways. “Where’s Lydia?”

            “Talking to Odahviing. By talking, I mean teaching him dirty songs.”

            “I _like_ that girl,” Sam said smugly.

            “Keep it to distant admiration and we’ll get on just fine.”

            “Fos dreh mu dreh voth fau dilon Thalmor? Fos dreh mu dreh voth fau dilon Thalmor? Fos dreh mu dreh voth fau dilon Thalmor? Vath ko feyl!”

            “Stuff him with snowberries and cook him slow. Stuff him with snowberries and cook him slow. Stuff him with snowberries and cook him slow, early in the morning!”

            “Oooh, I’ll have to remember that one,” Yssie said gleefully.

            “Me too,” Sam observed. “You know, I like you. You’re unpretentious, honest and genuinely enjoy a good time. Bit monogamous for my tastes, but I suppose we can’t have everything.”

            “Thanks.” Yssie smiled, looking genuinely touched. Sam admitted he liked to tempt and taunt people into a life of sin, but that was to shake them out of their stuffiness. Yssie had never given a shit to begin with, so his night with her and Lydia had been more about fun instead of getting them over themselves so they could enjoy life.

            “By the Nine!” Balgruuf, a delightfully private pervert with a Dunmer fetish, emerged from his bedroom to behold the party down below. “Ysraneth, what’s going on?”

            “Hey. Sam Guevenne, meet Balgruuf. Balgruuf, meet the guy who’s helping the Stormcloaks and Imperials get over themselves.”

            “Sam Guevenne – Oh boy.” Balgruuf flushed, rather adorably, and nodded with surprising respect. “I trust this mess will be cleaned up?”

            “I’ll put some dremora on it,” Sam promised. “In a week or so.”

            “…Wat. Siddgeir’s into _that_? Ewww. I’m never going to look at Khajiit in the same way again.”

            “Oh, my. That is… something.” Even Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Jarl of Falkreath.

            “I’m going back to bed,” Balgruuf announced to the air. “Wake me up when the party’s over.”

            “Sure thing, kinsman.” Yssie smiled at the old guy before he left.

            “I’ll clean up in a day or two,” Sam promised Yssie. “So… would you say ‘Mission accomplished’?”

            “Well, half of the party is now wedded and/or betrothed, a quarter of the rest are going to wake up and never speak of it again, and a fair few are going to hate each other no matter what, I suspect that the Civil War died a messy death.” Yssie shook her head in awe. “I’m impressed, Sam. And thanks. When I prayed for a solution to this damned mess, I wasn’t expecting your help.”

            “You’re welcome. Besides, I never expected Thalmor would be good for something other than shame-filled orgies. Your signature dish is a hit in Oblivion. It’s so good it’s permanently on offer in my part of the world.”

            “Great.” Yssie actually looked pleased. “If the Thalmor are scared of getting eaten, it might keep them at home.”

            “My dear, I guarantee the Thalmor are personally terrified of you. The Night Mother told me last week that they’re trying to figure out how to do the Black Sacrament and get you killed. Oddly enough, the Dark Brotherhood doesn’t seem to be interested in answering.”

            “Turns out the new Listener’s a Bosmer,” Yssie said with a grin. “It seems that the Listener has a certain amount of discretion in what contracts to pursue.”

            “Lucky for you.”

            “Yeah.” Yssie sighed, momentarily pensive. “I don’t know what I’m going to do for feasts when the Altmer stop being Thalmor.”

            “Given the frightful levels of stubbornness displayed by the high elves, I imagine you’ll live to ripe old age eating Thalmor tenderloin,” Sam assured her. “Failing that, I’ll send dremora to you with some.”

            “Awww, you’re the best Daedric Prince ever!” Yssie gave him a hug, which was quite touching.

            Sam returned it, nearly cracking the Nord’s ribs. “You’re the best Dragonborn ever. No, seriously, Talos still hasn’t forgiven me for the Altmer courtesan dressed like the Numidium.”

            “That jackhole’s a god?”

            “Yeah. He’s… sorta kinda necessary to keeping this world going. Hero-God, stops Akatosh unravelling, that sort of thing.”

            Yssie frowned. “Well, _shit._ ”

            “He isn’t the first. You’re certainly welcome to his job if you’d like. Oblivion knows you’d liven up the mixers.”

            Not that Sam had anything against Talos (beyond his colossal ego and hypocritical nature combined with a supreme dislike of anything resembling fun), but Yssie would make an awesome god. An Aedra who’d party with the Daedra? Hell yes!

            “Meh, I’mma have a quiet life and see what the gods decide,” she answered philosophically.

            “Suit yourself.” Sam cocked his ear as an invisible bell rang. “I gotta go. I’ll send the dremora clean-up team tomorrow.”

            “Sweet, thanks. I mean it. Thanks for everything.”

            “You too, sweetheart. Have a good honeymoon and send me the sketches-“

            Even a Daedric Prince couldn’t outrun an Unrelenting Force Shout, though it did expedite his entrance into the portal to Oblivion.

…

“Ysraneth, you are seriously _not_ going to tell Lucia and Sofie that’s how the Civil War ended!”

“But that’s how it ended!”

“I know, but aren’t they a little young?”

“They’re fourteen and fifteen respectively-“

“No. And that’s that.”

“Fine, Lydia. Should I take them Thalmor hunting then?”

“Yssie!”

“Sheesh, try to teach a kid the facts of life and you get into trouble!”

“We agreed to raise them reasonably normally.”

“This from the woman who taught Odahviing how to sing drunken songs in Dovahzul.”

“…Big difference between an eons-old dragon and teenagers, Yssie.”

“Not when he asks me what a Colovian milk sandwich is.”

“…Ahem. Sorry. Can I offer you one to make it up?”

“Yes please!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The final chapter. All pairings are implied and many are totally cracky, all chosen by my readers. I refuse to apologise for any horrifying mental imagery that your subconscious provides. Random jokes from pop culture throughout. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Another Ysraneth tale! Triggers for cannibalism and crack one-night stands. Two-chapter one-shot because I want votes on who the Stormcloak/Imperial match should be. The only no-no is Ulfric/Elisif.


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